


your loose ends, my new friends

by firstaids



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:29:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaids/pseuds/firstaids
Summary: Richie is, for what might be the first time in his life, speechless.





	your loose ends, my new friends

**Author's Note:**

> i suck at summaries, but, this is a fanfiction based off of the song "apartment" by modern baseball.  
> they're in college and there's alcohol, if you're not Chillin' with that...! and cussing. and a few fight club references because i just watched to all the boys ive loved before with my friend and we made it into a Reddie Thing and peter likes fight club and peter was, decidedly, richie in the reddie au, so i was thinking about it, so now its in there. ANYWAYS. enjoy...!

Richie Tozier is, contrary to popular belief, not a man of many connections.

No one from Derry, Maine - a pocketed shithole town at its best - could say otherwise for themselves, after all; the handful of kids who’d escaped its dead-end grasp before it had dug its claws into their futures often ended up just outside the border, as residents of the Chelonian University dorms, a less-than stellar educational society. And, despite all of his charms, Richie was no exception to the rule that becoming popular in less than three weeks was a miracle saved for romcoms and other film genres he had no interest in.

He wasn’t exactly complaining, though -- between his best friends, Stan and Bev, he was managing just fine. Better than fine, really, because, even though he was struggling to keep his third of the bedroom clean enough for Stan’s impeccable standards, it was enormously better than his old residence. (Sometimes, he’d still wake up to the door shutting a little too quickly, and an anxiety would spike within him that could only be described as childhood conditioning before the sight of bright, sunset colored hair shuffling under the sheets soothed him back into sleep.) But he was still looking for new friends, other than the three hookups he’d somehow managed in the first stretch of the school year.

So when Bev’s boyfriend’s adoptive brother’s best friend announced a small get-together meet-and-greet, in which the boyfriend invited Bev, who invited Richie, who invited Stan (much to his reluctance), he was a little more than excited to go. Parties were fine, but a board game night after the third Friday out in one sounded comforting, to say the least. To say the most -- he’d slipped on a shoddy hawaiian shirt an hour before the set time, and pushed Stan to wash his hands faster.

“Richie,” Stan groaned, wiping his hands with calm, focused strokes of the towel, “the earliest we should leave is in a half hour. It’s not even across town.”

Richie rolled his eyes, and in a mocking tone, pronounced, “ _ Stan _ . Your hands are not your dick, you don’t have to be so  _ gentle _ .” He faintly heard Bev snort from the other room, but was distracted by a harsh punch to his shoulder.

“I’m serious. I’m not going to be ready until 5:30, anyways, so suck it up.” Stan shoved him out of the bathroom and slammed the door.

Richie sulked back to the small den, where he snatched Bev’s cigarette from her mouth and slid it into his own, lounging on the couch. “Stan’s going to kill you if you smoke on the couch,” she laughed, still leaning out the window, and from the bathroom door, Stan shouted, “DO NOT SMOKE ON THE COUCH!” With an all-too-natural grace she dusted her hands off over the sill, and then threaded them through her hair, smirking at her roommate. “Why are you so excited to go anyways, Rich?”

He shrugged. “I want to meet new people.”

Stan appeared in the doorway, an eyebrow cocked and an electric toothbrush dangling from his hand, and said, “The three new girls you booted me out for weren’t enough people?”

“You already brushed your teeth!” Richie cries, exasperated. He disappears back into the bathroom as Bev stifles another laugh.

“Well, I’m happy you’re excited. I want you to meet my boyfriend.”

Richie nods. “I’m going to put him through the ringer, though, Bev. None but the best for my gal.”

“Technically, I’m his gal,” she grins, “but more accurately, I’m my own gal, you douche. And do not put him through the ringer. I do not need you freaking him out with your weird Fight Club references.”

In a Voice -- one he cannot exactly pinpoint himself, though it was certainly none from the movie -- he recited, “Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.”

“Like that. Do  _ not _ say that.”

 

Stan, as always, is extremely accurate, especially when it comes to timing -- he’s ready in exactly 30 minutes from when Richie’d first pestered him, so the three of them depart from the dorms at 5:30 for their short walk to the listed apartment. And, as though he’d planned for it, six instances of Stan dragging Richie away from store entrances highlighting the newest skateboards and television sets and, above all else, trinkets, leaves them outside the door titled  _ 217 _ promptly on time. Richie steps in front of Stan to knock, his knuckles rapping a bit too hard to be considered anything but obnoxious, and Beverly slings her arm over his shoulders as they hear the sound of footsteps and a stuttered “ _ c-c-coming! _ ”.

A boy opens the door widely, dressed in a slightly oversized flannel, his auburn hair hanging a bit low over one of his eyes, and grins at the sight of the three of them. He steps to the left in a welcoming motion, and catches Beverly’s hand in the process, shaking eagerly. “H-hey! It’s nice to m-meet all of you!”

“Hey,” Beverly nods, watching alongside Richie as the boy moves on to Stan, and then himself.

“I-I’m Bill,” he says, walking back down the narrow hallway into what seems to be the living room. Bev’s face lights up at who can only be her new boyfriend, and Richie’s poor jokes and references almost die in his throat at how genuinely sweet the boy looks.  _ Almost. _

“Heya,” he shouts, waving to her boyfriend and the other unnamed boy sitting on Bill’s other side, both politely waving back. He gets a bit too close to Beverly’s boyfriend, her hand still entangled in his as she looks at him with mischievous curiosity, and he nods to the boy. “Now, a question of etiquette -- as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?” 

His face flushes, and Beverly shoves Richie so hard in the chest that he stumbles backwards, though she looks ready to bend in half from laughter. “Shut  _ up _ , oh my God.” She turns to her boyfriend, and her hand visibly squeezes his for a second. “That’s Richie. He’s the worst person you’ll ever meet.”

“Aw, Bevvy,” Richie fakes a sad tone, face falling dramatically. “I’m just a man of culture.”

“I think he watches Fight Club once a week.”

“Fight Club?”

“NO!” Stan suddenly pipes up from behind Richie, where he’d been silent the whole time -- he shakes his head vigorously. “Do not even ask.”

Though he’d never admit there was one in the first place, the tightened knot of anxiety in Richie’s gut loosens the longer he spends with the boys, who he finds out are named Ben and Mike. Ben is just about as sweet as he looks, shy in a way that’s very different from Stan, and he’s the only one who comes off as a little nervous from Richie’s poor jokes (which he thereafter attempts to tone back a little). Mike, however, seems to laugh at every one -- and he also seems to win every card game they play, somehow.

“Mike, my good man,” Richie says in a failing country accent, which has over half of the group rolling their eyes in good humor, “you are  _ really _ hurtin’ my pride here. I mean, I thought I was lucky before tonight…”

“It’s not luck,” Mike chuckles, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline confidently. “It’s skill.”

Richie’s hand hits the table, hard. “One more round!”

The way Stan tips his glass back to his mouth seems to insinuate he’s doing it to cope with Richie’s unnecessary behavior, so the latter smacks him on the back and makes him gag. “RICHIE,” Bill laughs from across the table, reaching over to squeeze Stan’s upper arm and ask if he’s okay, which only has Stan sputtering more. The whole table erupts into laughter, which lasts for at least five extremely tipsy and breathless minutes, and only stops when Mike finally begins to redistribute the deck for their tenth round of poker. Bev’s hand catches Richie under the coffee table, and they swap cards, somehow managing a secret strategy without talking at all. Victory seems in reach for the first three quarters of the game, until Richie accidentally grabs at Ben’s knee, and Stan threatens to exile him and Beverly from the game for cheating.

“It was his idea!” Beverly points accusingly, and Richie’s hands shoot up.

“You know that I’m only bad in the sheets, Bev!”

They’re laughing again when a fumbling crash erupts from the cubicle of a kitchen, offset from the living room only by a few feet, and a soft voice mutters, “shit.” They all stop to look up with deft curiosity, and dark hair shifts in and out of view of the window between the living room and the kitchen -- for a long moment, Richie thinks Bill is getting robbed.

But then Bill says, sounding a little slurred from the drinking, “Eddie?” and matching dark eyes peer out at the group, eyebrows pinched together in the middle. The sound of glasses being gently placed in the sink is the only thing Richie can hear above his own breathing, which suddenly catches.

“Eddie, come over here!” Ben says, smile reaching the tops of his cheeks, and Eddie sighs in a way that makes Richie want to crawl out of his skin for some reason. He can’t tell if the “ _ okay _ ” he hears is in his head or not, but then Eddie shuffles out of the kitchen in the silence, one small hand picking at the wrist of his other. Richie feels his chest bubble up as Eddie hesitantly makes his way over to them, and then he stops, fingers moving to pick at the hems of his shorts, which are, in Richie’s wavering opinion, too high.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, avoiding everyone’s gaze, “I didn’t mean to disturb your, uh…” A hand flies out to gesture to the booze and cards scattered across the coffee table.

“I-i-it’s okay!” Bill says, and his words, as always, sound so genuine that Richie can see Eddie relax just a bit. “Come over h-here!” Eddie’s eyebrows scoot farther up his face, but then he’s awkwardly sitting down behind Bill, who’s hand scrambles behind him and latches onto Eddie’s at what Richie assumes must be the speed of light. Or maybe the drinking has caused everything around him to fall into a rhythm of being too fast and then too slow. Bill shakes his other hand at the rest of the group, as though only now revealing them to Eddie, who’s face begins to flush a bit. “Th-this i-i-is Stan, and Richie, and M-M-Mike, and Ben, and Beverly, a-and m--”

“I know you and Ben, Bill,” he laughs: a soft, delicate sort of noise, and Richie’s eyes widen behind his coke bottle glasses. He suddenly wishes he had spent as long as Stan had getting ready, to brush his tangled curls and put in some contacts, and he has no idea why. “Hi,” Eddie says to him and the others, and Richie trips over a too-loud “hey”, which Stan stares at him for a long time for. And that’s it.

That’s the last thing Richie says all night.

Even when Beverly kicks him in the shin under the table, looking concerned, or when Mike says he’ll down the rest of the bottle of vodka if Richie can make another poor Fight Club reference, or when Bill asks if he’s sincerely alright -- or when Eddie follows suit, eyes narrowing suspiciously. All Richie can manage is a thin smile or a choked laugh.

Richie’s there for two more hours before Stan is dragging him out of Bill’s apartment, because Beverly is going home with Ben and Stan somehow managed to stay mostly sober through the night. Richie trips over his own feet on the walk back, words spilling from his lips as though he’d been collecting them in his throat since Eddie had appeared, and Stan sighs heavily as he wraps an arm around Richie’s middle and pulls him along.

“He doesn’t play poker but he drinks a little,” Richie slurs, “or maybe he does play poker, maybe I annoyed him. I know I didn’t say anything but he must have heard me talking because he was there for a while, right? Before he came out and he looked at me, Stan, and then I-- Stan--” he stops walking to tug on Stan’s arm, and Stan looks more frustrated than usual. “And he asked me a question and I didn’t say anything, I was too nervous, oh my God. I was so dumb, Stan, huh, I mean, I know I’m always dumb, you always say I’m dumb -- but really dumb, this time, Stan. He didn’t say much, either, though, huh? Huh… And.. it was probably me, you know? Like, I was so awkward that he had to leave. Or maybe he was going to from the start, since I doubt he goes out in shorts as short as  _ that _ ,” Richie’s cut off for a mere second as Stan pulls him back into a pace that isn’t absolute zero.

“Richie, shut up. Seriously.”

“Sorry, Stan,” Richie whines, dropping his entire body weight onto his shorter friend’s shoulder, who abruptly groans and stumbles. “He was just really cute and I don’t know what to do because that was the worst first impression ever, right? Did he see me cheat? Oh my God… does he know I wouldn’t ever cheat on someone? It was Bev’s idea, I swear….” Richie looks on the verge of tears as they approach the entrance to the dorm building, and Stan has to reach around him to unlock the door with his keycard before shoving Richie inside. He thinks about how lucky he is that their dorm is only down the hall, and as he sits Richie down on his own bed, Richie reaches up to grab his wrist. Stan’s heart stops.

“Does he hate me?” Richie asks, and he looks so sad that Stan can’t stop himself -- he brushes Richie’s dark curls behind his ear and shakes his head. 

“No. No one ever could.”

Richie watches Stan turn off the lights with wide, blurry vision, before he passes out.


End file.
